


Little Voices

by zabira



Category: due South
Genre: M/M, Telepathy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-16
Updated: 2009-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 01:17:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zabira/pseuds/zabira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He wants to give Ray the same privacy he gives everyone else, and he doesn't want to, in equal measure.  When he's not paying strict attention, his mind will seemingly <i>reach</i> toward his partner.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Little Voices

**Author's Note:**

> A very insightful, detailed and wicked-fast beta was provided by Lamentables. All remaining mistakes are my own. Much gratitude to Meresy for helping me with the closet scene. She provided the fabulous mental image that got me unstuck. I'm not going to spoil it for you here, but when you get to a sentence that has the words "kicking" and "tangling" in it, that's hers.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own these characters. I am just playing in this sandbox.

Normally, he tunes it out. It's just a buzz of meaningless noise in his head, with the occasional crisp pop of a single word or phrase coming to him context-free. When he needs to, he can stretch his not-hearing and catch more of what the people around him are thinking and feeling, but he tries not to do it unless he has to. He doesn't need to know what Huey had for breakfast, what Turnbull is doing on Friday night, how often Welsh's thoughts stray to Francesca, so he just—doesn't listen.

Then there is Ray.

He wants to give Ray the same privacy he gives everyone else, and he doesn't want to, in equal measure. When he's not paying strict attention, his mind will seemingly _reach_ toward his partner.

_Yeah, I would lick you right there_. It's Ray's voice, clear as if he's saying it to Fraser's face. He's sitting right across from Fraser, apparently engaged in his paperwork, and it takes every ounce of willpower Fraser possesses not to lift his head and stare at him. He realizes that he's brought his hand up to tug at his collar. Two of his own fingers are touching the tendon there, but instead of their slightly callused tips, he feels a tongue, soft and warm, strong and a little rough, running up his neck. Spiky hair tickles at him just a little, and when the tongue reaches Fraser's ear, he feels the startling bite of teeth in the soft skin behind his earlobe.

"Oh," Fraser says before he can stop himself.

Ray looks up from where he is—apparently—engrossed in his report. "What's up, Fraser?"

Usually, there's an almost disconcerting congruence between what Ray thinks and what he says, as if his thoughts leap straight from his brain to his mouth without passing the filter that almost everyone employs. Before this, Fraser has wondered how someone so transparent ended up working undercover. Now he knows. There is not one, single sign from Ray that he has just been indulging in sexual fantasies about his partner. His face isn't even choir-boy innocent. He has the same frazzled and exasperated look he always wears when he is stuck at his desk, a look that's now overlaid with mild curiosity about Fraser's exclamation.

"I, uh, I'm afraid I need something from Records, Ray," Fraser manages, not quite certain where he's found the composure, "Please excuse me."

Ray gives him a worried look. Lord knows what the expression on his face might be. "You all right, buddy? Something wrong?"

"No, Ray, nothing's wrong." Lies. "I'll be back in one moment." With that, he turns and forces himself to walk slowly and steadily out of the bullpen. His shoulders prickle where he is sure he can feel Ray's eyes on him. He can't really relax until he turns the corner and is certain Ray can't see him. The uniform makes it impossible to slump, but his shoulders drop and he breathes a little sigh of relief.

And as soon as he lets down his guard, he feels it: the phantom sensation of Ray's body pressed all along his back. It's as if Ray's thoughts are his arms, wrapped around Fraser's chest. Fraser can feel those teeth again, gently scraping over his neck. And now he knows what Ray's cock would feel like, rubbing slowly but insistently into him between two sets of clothes.

_Oh God, Fraser, the things I want to do to you. You have no idea._ Ray's voice in his head sounds a little sad, but also breathless and enticingly scratchy. It takes everything Fraser has not to turn around and confront him, but what would he say? What can he do about it in the middle of the station at 2:14 on a Tuesday?

Anyway, they have work to do.

As soon as Fraser gets his composure back, he will do his best to assist Ray, and maybe that will be the end of it. Fraser isn't entirely certain if that thought makes him happy or sad, but he is _almost_ certain that it's true.

After a few long moments, his breathing slows. He shakes his head, pulls his tunic straight for good luck, turns around and walks back into the bullpen.

He is careful to tune out every single thought but his own, and he schools his face to calm, pleasant blankness as he heads toward the desk in the corner. Ray is bent over it, intently scribbling something on a sheet of paper. There is a small crease of frustration between his eyebrows.

As soon as he sits down, Ray looks up. He gives Fraser one of those assessing looks he sometimes uses, like he's checking for injuries or making sure Fraser isn't about to ask him to do something unpleasant. When he's apparently satisfied himself on that score, he picks up the papers he's been scratching away at and thrusts them under Fraser's nose.

"Fraser, fix this, will you?"

"What seems to be the problem, Ray?" Fraser takes the pages and smoothes them out on the desk in front of him.

"I do not know, Fraser. It's just broken and someone needs to fix it."

When Fraser looks down, he sees that this assessment—though colorful—is essentially correct. Ray is an excellent police officer; all of the necessary details of the case are there, but the report is littered with more than the usual number of misspellings. Ray's spiky handwriting—which Fraser secretly enjoys, despite its illegibility—is even more out of control than usual. It's been a very long day, and Ray just isn't suited to this particular task.

He looks up again, and Ray is already bent over the next report, so that only his unruly hair and the rim of his heavy glasses are visible. He's muttering names to himself, and his body is shaking slightly from where he's tapping his toe under the desk.

Fraser is suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of affection for his prickly friend.

And then the wave breaks over him with the obliterating image of Ray, naked. In his mind—and is this his fantasy or Ray's?—Fraser jumps to his feet, shoves papers, lamp, stapler, _everything_ off the desk. Objects crash and shatter around him as he pulls Ray up and shoves him down on the now-clear surface. His tunic is open—how'd that happen?—he pushes his pants down just enough, and presses into Ray with no preamble—no kiss, no touch, no word. This is a fantasy, and so he slides in slick and smooth, and Ray is moaning, nearly sobbing with it—_Oh, Fraser. Oh, yes! Oh, God, harder, harder! Please_—as he thrusts again and again, erratic and helpless and wanting more even as he's getting it.

_Oh man, Fraser. I bet you're something else._ It's Ray's voice, not the porn soundtrack, but his everyday ordinary self, and with the words, Fraser knows that the outrageous images flooding his brain don't belong to him. They might as well, even so. He feels himself flushing, prickling with heat, itching to make them real.

He drops his gaze quickly back to the report in front of him, but the words swim and blur, incomprehensible.

Why has Fraser never heard this before? Is it simply because Ray is restless and—as he would put it—horny? Is Fraser just a convenient body on which to project his sexual frustrations?

Fraser bristles at the cavalier way that Ray has hijacked their partnership simply in order to amuse himself on a slow day at work. How like Ray to simultaneously inspire both arousal and irritation in him.

Fraser focuses intently on the paper in front of him. Eventually he begins to calm, and the words solidify. He diligently attacks Ray's work with white-out and the clean, careful library-hand that his grandmother taught him. Soon, it is put back to rights, but Fraser finds that _he_ isn't. He feels confused and out of sorts, and doesn't particularly want to meet Ray's eyes. He wishes there were more errors for him to correct, and so he keeps his head down, hunting for something he knows he's not going to find.

_You do not look happy, buddy._ It's Ray's voice in his head again, and now Ray is picturing himself walking slowly around the desk, dropping to his knees beside Fraser's chair, reaching up his arms and drawing Fraser down so that Ray can place a soft kiss on his temple. Then Ray's dream-self pulls Fraser's head to rest on his shoulder, and they just sit like that, awkwardly curled together. Fraser can feel Ray's hands brushing soothingly over his back.

Oh.

_Oh._

This time, when Fraser lifts his head, he doesn't bother to school his expression. He doesn't say anything, either, just stares at the top of Ray's head until he looks up.

"Hey Fraser, you-" Ray's eyes widen when they finally meet Fraser's, and his last words are very soft and very slow, "done with that?"

Fraser makes no move to respond to him, and they stare at one another. It's not easy for Fraser, resisting the urge to shutter up his feelings—to put on his pleasant, business-like face—but he does it. He lets himself just sit there, stripped bare for Ray; lets Ray see not just the everyday admiration, but the longing, too. He's seen some of Ray's most private thoughts about him. It's only fair.

This isn't the place or time he would have chosen for this revelation, but it's the one they get, and he can feel delighted anticipation bubbling up in him as he waits for Ray. Ray's face is as expressive as ever, and he can see Ray's comprehension and hope warring with his uncertainty. Not for the first time, he wishes he could lay thoughts in people's minds instead of take them, but he doesn't reach out to Ray with his own, just lets him work through it.

Finally, Ray seems to have talked himself into a decision. He reaches his hand across the desk, sliding it toward Fraser, but not touching him. The bullpen still bustles around them, seemingly oblivious to their staring contest.

"Really, Fraser?" Ray's voice is still soft. "Really?"

Fraser can't do this here. He's suddenly afraid that he will do something reckless in front of all these people. He stands up and grabs Ray's wrist.

"Ray, please come with me."

As soon as Ray is on his feet, Fraser starts tugging him out of the bullpen. His face is flaming, but no one even looks their way as they zigzag past desks and through the chaos of the 2-7.

There's a small janitor's closet in the basement, tucked away under the stairs. When Fraser reaches it, he pulls Ray inside, shuts the door, grabs Ray's shoulders and pins him up against it.

Ray grins as he thumps against the wood, and he just keeps grinning. Fraser isn't entirely sure why it's so easy, but they appear to have reached an understanding without saying a word. He feels the same exhilaration as he does when they are working together, when Ray lets go of his objections and is simply _in step_ with him.

So he doesn't wait for any further confirmation from Ray. He crowds Ray up against the door, kicking his feet apart and tangling up their legs. He sees Ray's eyes widening as he nudges at him with one knee, and then he can't see anything, because they are kissing. Ray's hands come up immediately. One tangles in Fraser's hair, holding his head close—as if he would ever want to get away—and the other one curls itself around Fraser's belt. Ray is making tiny noises in the back of his throat, and he grinds against Fraser in short, aborted motions, like he doesn't even realize he's doing it. His mouth is soft and wet, and tastes of coffee and chocolate and _Ray_.

Fraser takes his hands from Ray's shoulders, slips them into the spiky prickle of Ray's hair and kisses him like they're fighting. He's so desperate to take in every little detail, that he knows he's being rough. He's not careful with his teeth, and he can't keep his tongue out of Ray's mouth for even long enough to give him a turn. Ray doesn't seem to mind. He's trying to pull Fraser closer, which is clearly impossible right now, as they are fused together everywhere they can be, from lips to toes. Fraser can feel the press of Ray's penis against his own between way too many clothes. It shocks a spike of almost-painful pleasure through him every time Ray shifts.

Fraser is so lost in it, he almost forgets where they are. His awareness is confined to the taste of Ray's mouth, the hard press of his body, and the satisfaction he feels as Ray's hands clutch at him.

He's almost irritated when Ray pulls away, and is tempted to resist when Ray pushes him back, clearing a tiny space between them. Ray just grins at his frustration, and then grabs him, spins them around and presses Fraser back against the door with a thump he _hopes_ no one is around to hear.

Fraser immediately reaches to pull him in for more kisses, but Ray evades him. He just gives him that grin again and then slithers to his knees. Before Fraser can even get his head around that, Ray's unbuttoning and unbuckling things, his fingers working nimbly over the uniform like he's done this a hundred times.

"Ray!" Fraser manages, shocked and uncertain, "Ray, what are you doing?"

"What does it _look_ like I'm doing, Fraser?"

"Ray, you can't. We're...This is...We'll be-"

Ray's breath is fast and loud, and as the layers of Fraser's uniform are cracked open, he can _feel_ it on his skin. It makes his head swim, and he can't figure out how to object.

"You wanna finish one of those sentences, Fraser?" Ray's voice is amused, but he looks just as stunned, just as hungry, and Fraser gives up on rational thought for now. He nods at Ray. It's not an answer to his question, but Fraser trusts Ray to know what he means.

And Ray does. He bends his head and carefully pulls Fraser's penis out from behind the placket on his boxers. Fraser gasps at the touch of his warm, dry hands. Ray looks up and holds his eyes as he fits his mouth around the tip. Fraser can feel Ray's tongue, mobile and wet and slicking against the most sensitive part of him. Ray's hand is still on him, and he sets up a rhythm that has Fraser's breath going completely haywire. He's shaking now, and his whole body seems to belong to Ray's mouth.

Ray sucks him slowly, almost sweetly, as if he's in no hurry with it. He's closed his eyes, and he's making sounds, little moans and tiny rumbling noises of pleasure, like this is his treat and not Fraser's. His tongue flickers around Fraser's penis, as if he wants to catch all the tastes and textures he can.

Fraser looks down and sees that Ray has his own pants open. He is stroking himself to a faster, more desperate rhythm than the languid, unhurried one he's using on Fraser.

Fraser's mind wants to white out at that, and he throws his head back. If he keeps watching Ray, he won't last another second. As his eyes close, he hears a small voice in his head: _Oh, fuck. Oh, Fraser. Love you. Love you. Oh, Fuck, Ben!_

Ray's mouth pulls away from him at that, and Fraser feels the prickle of hair against the skin of his belly. He looks down to see that Ray is _coming_, just like that, shaking and moaning into the skin of Fraser's hip, one hand clutching at Fraser's knee. Fraser strokes his hair, overwhelmed with a confused tangle of lust and tenderness.

Finally, Ray's breathing slows, and he looks up at Fraser with a slightly sheepish expression.

"Fuck, Fraser," he says, "You are just...I...sorry to leave you hanging, buddy."

"Ray-" Fraser can't find anywhere to go with that, so he reaches down and cups Ray's face in his hands. When he kneels to kiss Ray, he forgets about his pants, which are tangled around his thighs. He loses his balance and they both go tumbling to the concrete floor.

"Jesus, Fraser." Ray is laughing, but he stops when Fraser gathers him in and kisses him, again and again. He's nearly frantic with love for Ray, but he can't find words, and so they roll and clutch at one another, heedless of the dust and the discomfort and the danger of their location.

Finally, Ray kicks one booted foot against the door and pulls far enough away from Fraser that he can put his hands on him.

Fraser freezes up at the touch of Ray's fingers. The want is almost too intense now, "Ah!"

"Yeah, ah," Ray agrees, stroking him. Fraser drops his head and pants helplessly into Ray's shoulder. "Come on, Fraser, that's it. Come on."

Fraser's orgasm hits him as if Ray's words have called it into being. As it crests over him, he hears that little voice again: _Yeah. Love you, my beautiful Fraser._

When Fraser gets ahold of himself enough to open his eyes, Ray is watching him. His eyes have that approving twinkle they sometimes get. "We're a mess," he says.

"Yes, we are, Ray." Right now, Fraser's too content to care about it, but they are indeed a wreck: sticky and disheveled and covered in dust.

Ray laughs. "Why today, huh, Fraser? Did I miss something?"

Fraser leans up to kiss him instead of answering. Now isn't the time to explain. He gets them both to their feet, finds his handkerchief and hands it to Ray.

"Take us home, Ray," he says, "I think we've done enough for the day."

Ray is already helping him set the uniform to rights. His face is lit with the same shyly pleased smile he used the first time Fraser asked him to dinner.

"Okay, buddy. Home I can do."

_My beautiful Fraser._

~fin


End file.
